


the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold (the curves of your lips rewrite history)

by celestique



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Ending, Dorks in Love, Drunkenness, Fluff and Angst, Historical Figures, M/M, Pining, Prohibition, Slow Dancing, and aziraphale is cute when he takes the lead, im a big history nerd lmao, in which crowley is whipped as usual, in which they decide they can have good things, some soft genderless celestial entities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-08-10 00:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestique/pseuds/celestique
Summary: And maybe he’s a bit too drunk, and maybe he’s a bit too sad, and maybe he’s riding on the memories of him and Wilde, muttering their confessions and secrets in the dark. But heaven and hell don’t have to watch them now - in this moment, he’s just Crowley, and in this moment the person before him’s just Aziraphale. There is no war. There is no division.There is just now.-In a tucked-away speakeasy no one knows about, an angel offers a dance.An alternate ending to the Prohibition (America, 1920) section of my other fic - "i'll walk beside you, my love (any way the wind blows)".





	the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold (the curves of your lips rewrite history)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i'll walk beside you, my love (any way the wind blows)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20084245) by [celestique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestique/pseuds/celestique). 

> while i was writing the prohibition section from "i’ll walk beside you, my love (any way the wind blows)" i couldn’t help but think that the entire concept of that section was such an aesthetic. i mean, it’s literally an angel and a demon talking about (and reading) oscar wilde inside a gay speakeasy during the 1920s while a lesbian in drag sings. with that in mind, i couldn’t get out this idea i had for an alternate ending that makes it even more aesthetic.
> 
> this is that ending.
> 
> i would say that you probably should read the first fic first because this literally begins where the prohibition (America, 1920) section of that one left off. but also i don't know how well this can stand on its own? it probably can, but if you'd like prior context, please check the other fic out!
> 
> the title is taken from oscar wilde’s "the picture of dorian gray".

_"since I can't remember when / it's been a long, long time / you'll never know how many dreams / i've dreamed about you."_

_\- it's been a long, long time, helen forest & harry james_

* * *

**America, 1920: Crowley**

“If I remember right, that may have been for Bosie.”

Aziraphale glows when he smiles. Even if he wasn’t a literal angel, he would have thought him ethereal either way. 

It hurts to look at it. Reminds him that he's just a bit damned, and why should he have to suffer this kind of torment?

Gladys’ next song is slower, far more appropriate to the groanings of strangers in other booths and a better background for the kisses shared between men and men, and women and women, in the different corners of this amber-tinted hideaway. He wants to soak in all the atmosphere, relish in it for now. He lifts his head up to the ceiling, twirling his glass of whiskey while the angel before him turns the pages of his book.

An old proverb once said, "the forbidden fruit tastes all the sweeter".

That's a lie, if you asked him.

It's the biggest _fucking _lie he's ever heard.

Aziraphale settles the book down and stands. He looks up at him, all the light of amber reflecting. Crowley puts down the whiskey glass.

"Leaving already, angel?"

"Actually, I was going to ask if you would dance with me? The song's rather nice."

The way he asks of this so easily is stunning. As if they weren't from two opposite lines of an impending war. As if he wasn't fallen, and he wasn't blessed. As if they were people, and people only.

When he extends his hand to him, Crowley can only stare. He smiles so kindly, so innocently, he doesn't know what to make of it at first.

But maybe he’s a bit too drunk, and maybe he’s a bit too sad, and maybe he’s riding on the memories of him and Wilde, muttering their confessions and secrets in the dark. But heaven and hell don’t have to watch them now - in this moment, he’s just Crowley, and in this moment the person before him’s just Aziraphale. There is no war. There is no division.

There is just now.

Before he even realizes it, he's already standing - stumbling, just a bit, when his feet properly connect with the ground. He sways, but not enough to drive him off-balance.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale looks at him, shaking the hand once more.

He takes it.

“Shall we, angel?” It is a murmur, barely heard (as it should be, he believes). “You realize it won't be the gavotte, yes?"

He doesn’t say he wants to touch him, even if it is just a fraction of skin from bodies not entirely their own brushing. He doesn’t say it’s because he wants to, genuinely, spend a moment near his gravity so he can tell what it feels to truly fall like this. He doesn’t give any admission that belongs to storybooks and movies in the cinema. He doesn’t announce pent-up declarations born from centuries and centuries of emotion he’d try to convey.

No, he just wants a dance. Any simple one would do.

What’s surprising is he lets himself give in to this want that seeds inside his chest. What’s more surprising is that Aziraphale - _ Aziraphale _\- holds his hand with an honest, ginger smile on his face. Their palms touch, and it feels like burning in his skin.

It feels like hope.

Tomorrow, when he wakes, he’ll bite that feeling down once more. He’ll keep it locked away. But right now, Aziraphale holds on to him and says one single “_yes_” that, if he were a fool, he’d have thought came from a dream. But his dreams do not even have this swelling _ possibility _ in them_. _

So he holds this moment close, pulls the angel before him away from the booth with a cheeky, stupid smile in his face he can’t help. Aziraphale follows him without protest, and in his eyes he sees stars themselves. (He should know what stars look like, after all, he’s made them long ago.)

He puts his other hand on the small of his waist, and Aziraphale’s free hand rests above its shoulder. Only then does it sink in that they are truly doing this - he is _ dancing _ with _ Aziraphale. _

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, as they sway to Gladys Bentley’s voice. His heartbeat is loud, panicked, and everything seems to blur except for _ him,_ right in front of his very eyes. “Around this time, you’d be saying we’re hereditary enemies.”

He wants to be certain. He needs this certainty. He doesn’t know if he can handle spending every moment after this stuck wondering and wondering.

Aziraphale looks up, meeting his eyes, and _ heaven _ , his gaze is far softer than it should be. With every second that passes, this moment begins to feel more and more intimate. This moment just feels _ more. _

“If you are,” is his reply. It’s just as careful, just as guarded, but it is _ enough _ of a sign.

And he’s stunned.

He’s stunned that he can have this. He’s stunned that this is real. (He almost wants to ask if it is, truly and utterly, real, but the warmth of their hands pressed together and the breath of a space left between them are enough proof for him to realize that he is present.) 

“How many times can I say I've been tempted by an angel to a dance?"

"Well, maybe Gabriel will consider this a win for our side."

"Maybe Beelzebub would have something different to say to that."

_Are you sure about this? _he'd asked.

_If you are, _he'd said.

_I am._

Because he is, and he’s grinning like a fool. He’s grinning and so is Aziraphale, and when they dance, the world is a single space. The world is a single breath. 

In the walls of a tucked away speakeasy, an angel and a demon dance to a song sung and played by a woman in white during the night. It’s as surreal as he never could have expected. He’s so used to wanting without reprieve that he can’t quite imagine what it is like to be _ allowed _ a moment such as this, but they have it.

When he spins them around, Crowley snaps his fingers, and his head is clear. 

Somewhere in their booth, a whiskey glass is full.

( _ And the next song Gladys Bentley sings is a somber tune, for one more dance before the night is done. ) _


End file.
